The Turning Point: A gripping emotional page-turner with a breathtaking twist

‘The boys are so rude!’ Annabel whispered. ‘Did you hear them? Did you hear what Josh said about Auntie Peta’s food?’

‘I did. Ghastly – but it’s just a phase.’

‘Well, if Sam goes through a phase, we will have to kill him.’

‘He might, you know – but we’ll find a way to deal with it that doesn’t involve death.’

‘They’re so rude!’ Annabel shook her head. ‘When can I have a phone?’

‘A phone?’

‘So you can phone me.’

‘When you’re at secondary school – like Sam.’

‘But you can’t phone me tonight to tell me if you’re going to be later than lateish.’

‘I’ll keep in touch with Peta.’

‘You look – lovely,’ Peta told Frankie sweetly, glancing over at Annabel who was seemingly engrossed in Frozen. ‘Smile?’

Frankie raised her eyebrow at herself. ‘I’m so nervous. It’s crazy.’ She scanned her sister’s face for reassurance. ‘Am I mad?’

Peta sighed. ‘It is nuts – all of it. But if you were me, you wouldn’t be doing it and if I was you – then hell yes, I would!’ She paused. ‘Go. Stop thinking. Don’t worry about Annabel. Go and have fun – or there’s absolutely no point.’

Gazing at her daughter, Frankie suddenly thought perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this, perhaps my place is on a sofa, watching Frozen. She thought of Sam and the unknown Massey family. Did they win the cricket? Was he OK? Did he feel palmed off? It all felt a bit self-centred, slightly dishonest.

‘Go!’ said Peta with a friendly shove.

Frankie looked down at her shoes. Were her feet going to be sore in an hour? Did Scott really want to see her?

‘Will you make it really lovely for Annabel?’

‘I have the best night planned,’ Peta said. ‘Pink fake cocktails in sugar-crusted martini glasses, popcorn, mini-marshmallows and chocs and we’re going to watch Pitch Perfect. I’ve only ever watched it once, secretly on the laptop with headphones on in the top room. My boys would smash the DVD otherwise.’

‘Where will they be? Josh and Stan?’

‘On their phones in their rooms with music on and stinky socks.’

‘So Annabel will be fine?’

‘Yes, Frankie – and so will you. Now – go.’

The further the cab took Frankie from Hampstead, the lighter her nerves became, metamorphosing from a leaden plug of guilt and anxiety in the pit of her stomach, to a feathering of butterflies swirling up against her diaphragm. She loved her dress and it really was a frock, whatever Annabel claimed to the contrary. Petrol blue, scooped neck and back, little cap sleeves – it had something of the 1950s about it. Changing her shoes to trusty ballet pumps at the last minute was a good idea, and she felt a femininity that months of slopping around at home in old jeans and shabby tops had compromised. She checked her phone. No messages at all. The taxi was travelling down Fitzjohn’s Avenue and all the traffic seemed to be going the other way. The lights were green. Nothing, it seemed, was standing in her way.

In Abbey Road, Scott was working. He’d be back again in the morning, for a couple of hours before his flight, but was nearly done for now. The week had been a good one and he was happy with the results. He looked at his watch. Almost six o’clock – a curious in-between time, not quite evening, long since afternoon. He phoned his daughter.

‘Hey Pops.’

‘Hey Jenna.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Oh – good. How’s you?’

‘Fine – I promise! Dad – don’t do the loaded pause. What time do you get in tomorrow – is Aaron picking you up?’

‘I arrive around six. And yes – or I’ll be hitching home.’

‘I saw him driving your truck yesterday – it’s like a totally different vehicle with him. Windows down – music loud.’

Scott laughed. Aaron posing as cooler than cool. ‘What was he playing?’

‘Springsteen or Bryan Adams.’

He laughed again. ‘No daughter of mine can possibly confuse the two.’

‘All I heard was some loud guitar as he flew past. Buddy was riding up front – with a bandana around his neck.’

Scott could envisage it so clearly it sent a pang that coursed right through him. An evening of promise stretched enticingly ahead of him and yet he thought, Godspeed tomorrow. ‘Will I see you next week?’

‘Sure! I have a day off on Thursday.’

‘I’ll come pick you up.’

‘So what are you doing tonight? How’s the work going?’

‘It’s going great.’

‘Did you meet the Royal Queen of England yet?’

‘Nope – she keeps leaving messages though. All the time. Crazy old girl.’

‘How about an English Rose – did you meet one of those yet?’

Jenna thought the connection had gone.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought you’d gone. So call me when you’re home?’

‘Sure.’

‘And see you Thursday?’

‘You bet.’